


By the Throat

by TanninTele



Series: Pick Your Poison [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crime, Criminal AU, F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Minor Slash, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: Everyone thought him mad, releasing an insane man from jail to convince a mere boy the difference from right and wrong. It was, indeed, impossible for most - but he was Albus Dumbledore.And he would do whatever it took to keep Riddle from winning this war.Part Two of 'Pick Your Poison'Note: You really can't read one without reading the other.





	1. The Renegade

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. 
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> Mentions of forced, underaged prostitution.  
> Mentioned death and injury.  
> Graphic and disturbing descriptions of violence.

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Renegade**

_**Saturday** _

"Oh, good. You're awake." 

Harry moaned, his head fuzzy and vision blurred. He felt as though he'd been beat over the head with a hammer. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping, though it had been fitful and unending. "W - what time is it?" 

The man checked his pocket watch. "You've slept through the night and most of this morning. It is now sunrise," his lips pursed. "In retrospect, the dosage I gave you might have been a bit high for someone of your stature." 

The words were nearly too soft for Harry to understand. "Wha - what?" Harry accepted his glasses, sitting up. A white leather seat crinkled beneath him. "Where are we?" It appeared as though they were in a long, metal tube with circular tables, a narrow aisle and several empty seats. The windows were small, but outside he could see the iridescent lining of orange-tinted clouds. 

"We're nearly to our destination," Tom said vaguely, glancing back at his newspaper. The bureaucrat was sitting across from Harry in a new, black suit, the collar popped. His legs were crossed, a cup of tea balance on his knee. "If look down, you might see the Balkan mountain range." 

A moment passed before this information registered. Harry clenched the armrests in panic, gaping out the window. "Nearly - _are we in the air?"_

Tom took an idle sip. "Quite. I have business in Bulgaria that must be attended to." 

"B - but - "   

Blue eyes peered at him. "Don't tell me you're afraid of heights? You've been flying unaware for a full three hours, and no harm has come to you," Harry sensed an unspoken 'yet'. 

The boy floundered, unsure which raging question to adress first. "Bulgaria? That's - a bit far, isn't it? My uncle said - " 

"That you had to return by Monday. And you will. Are you that excited to return 'home'? Is my company not stimulating enough?" He said with mock hurt.

Harry tactfully ignored this. " _Why_ are you taking me to Bulgaria?" 

"I have tracked my runaway friend to his childhood home near a small village named Crivina. I've also decided to take a much-needed break, before the upcoming elections take up my schedule." 

Harry dismissed this last part. "What traitor? Do you mean Karkaroff?" Harry frowned, trying to remember the events of the night before. "What was the point in knocking me out if you couldn't even catch the man?"  

"Karkaroff wasn't the traitor I was dealing with last night." 

The boy was dubious. "You need more loyal followers, Tom, if they're betraying you left and right."

"Don't I know it," Tom huffed a breath. He brushed his brown hair back tiredly, and Harry noted a deep wrinkle on his forehead. It was rather humanizing, considering Tom's otherwise flawless features. "While you were changing out of those horrid hand-me-downs - "

Harry shifted awkwardly, reminded of his current, opulent - if not slightly wrinkled - attire. He was certain he looked horribly dishevelled after being drugged, carted about and . . . what, carried? . . . into a bloody airplane. Feeling a blush creep onto his features, he forced his train of thought back to Tom's words. " - Peter took the liberty of  _borrowing_ something else from my personal effects." 

He tried to piece the conversation together. "What did he steal?" 

Tom waved a hand, setting aside his teacup and newspaper. "Just a priceless replica of the human hand carved into silver." 

"Is it . . . " Harry hedged, feeling slightly out of his depth. "Important?" 

"Hm, no. Priceless, like I said, but merely decorative. I suspect, like a greedy magpie, Peter thought it  _shiny,"_ he sneered, dabbing delicately at a splotch on his bottom lip. "Theft is theft, and Peter's betrayal was not to be tolerated." 

Harry's green eyes were shining warily in the dancing rays of light. "What did you _do_ to him?" 

"I did not kill him," the man said, though he seemed regretful. "Peter has proved himself useful in the past, if not . . . fickle. Did you know, in ancient times, thieves would lose a hand for her crimes?"

It didn't take long for his message to cross. "You . . . cut off his hand?" The poor boy looked fit to be ill.

Tom merely smirked. "Seemed fitting." 

Fifteen minutes later, they had landed in an empty field. Their pilot silently approached them. He was a jagged-tooth, sneering man, the top buttons of his uniform undone to reveal wiry chest hair. "Here are the coordinates as you requested, and the firearm," the man handed over a black box. Tom nodded gratefully, removing a rectangular electronic and a cloth-covered holster. He fixed it onto his belt. 

"Is that . . . a glock in your pocket?" Harry stared at the bulge by Tom's hip. The man jerked at the question, before giving a shark-tooth grin. 

"Or am I just happy to see you?" 

Harry's throat tightened. "Seriously, Tom. What the fuck?" 

 _"Language."_  The man removed the black gun, the weight comfortable in his palm. "I'm a crime lord, darling," his finger caressed the trigger. "It's only natural that I'm armed and dangerous."  

* * *

Thick trees blew about them, the sun barely visible through the tall branches. Sticks and leaves crunched under his shoes as Harry followed Tom over moss-covered stones. The colonnade of trees grew narrower, and the sounds of life were not far. Blue blossoms could be seen every few yards, swaying above the forest floor. The cornflowers, ethereal in their beauty, resembled the fabled will o’ the wisps.

Sinking his hands into his large trouser pockets, his hair sticking up haphazardly, Harry looked roguish and wild. Tom wasn't much better. He looked like a wolf-raised man, back hunched as if prepared to launch himself at the nearest unsuspecting prey.

"Are we there yet?" Harry burst out, scratching a bug-bite on his neck. 

A slow smirk stretched across Tom's lips. "Just be patient, love. Ah, there - look up ahead," he pointed a long finger, tugging Harry behind a bush. Up the path was a small child, chasing a moth. Tan hands read forward to grab it, but the creature quickly fled from her grasp. Giggling, she hiked up her skirt and padded across the underbrush, stray leaves crunching beneath her sandalled feet. Her hair was long - nearly to the bottom of her dress, which was hand-made with little rosebuds stitched along the hem. 

"Follow the child," Tom whispered in his ear, the warm puff of air sending shivers down Harry's spine. "She will lead us to the village."

They watched young girl dance happily, before a voice called from afar.  _"Louisa!"_   In a language unknown to Harry, the parent rapidly instructed her to return home. With one last attempt at catching the bug, Louisa twirled on her heel and pranced toward the the small, haphazardly built townsquare situated in the deep valley.

"Are we visiting the village?" Harry asked curiously. "It's just, I don't really know the language." 

"Crivina is not our true destination. Karkaroff's home should only a little bit away, due east."

Harry's brow raised. _"Should_  be _?_ Do you . . . not  _know_ where we're going?" 

"Don't be ridiculous. I know everything," the man surreptitiously checked the global positioning devise in his pocket. It was square and equipped with several buttons, the screen flashing every few strides. A mile or so later, they finally stumbled upon the shack. 

Igor's childhood home was a depressing place, completely squalor and covered with vines. "Thisis it?" Harry asked. "It's . . . so quiet." 

The faded white-wash was smeared with grime, the siding invaded by thorny vines, tangled together like Harry's hair. The yard filled with bright yellow dandelions and a number of overgrown weeds. Holding a finger to his lips, Tom forced open the back gate. The rusted hinges squeaked pitifully in response to the pressure of his hand, echoing over the silence of the yard. Painted in shades of brown and grey, the scene was creased and faded like a copy of an old photograph. Not even the wind dared to interrupt this eerie repository. Harry followed warily, feeling the dried grass crunch beneath his shoes. He flinched at the scuttle of paws, a small mouse scuttling past. 

The mouse slipped in through a hole in the wall. There was dead silence, and then -  _"Filthy vermin!"_ A heavily accented voice shouted, followed by a volley of gun shots. 

Tom shoved Harry to the ground, tugging the gun from it's holster. "Stay quiet and out of the way," he hissed, eyes flashing. "Karkaroff may be a coward, but is he is also easily triggered. Both metaphorically and literally."  

"No  _shit."_

A hand shoved him down by the scalp. "Hush." 

Tom slowly crept up to the shack, holding his gun aloft. Harry held his breath, feeling helpless. How in the world had he gotten himself into this? Why couldn't Tom have just left him on the plane? Said man slipped through the front door, disappearing from Harry's sight. The gunfire began immediately. 

"Fuck this." Harry went to his feet and grabbed the nearest thing - a long, bent piece of gutter pipe. Watching the dirty windows for any sign of movement, Harry snuck around to the back door. Weeds tickled his ankles, but Harry ignored the itch. 

Voices drifted outside through a broken window. Harry risked a glance, seeing the carcass of the mouse the floor. Tom had Karkaroff on his knees, the latter's gun on the other side of the room. Igor was a tall, wiry man with crooked yellow teeth and an overgrown goatee. He might've been attractive in his day, but the wrinkles in his skin and the ugly, faded tattoos crawling up his arms ruined it. 

" - disappointed me greatly." 

Sweat dripped from the man's forehead. " _Ebi se,_ Riddle." 

"I think not, Karkaroff," Tom responded smoothly. "You're not my type, thankfully." 

"Disgusting faggot _._ Severus' poison should have killed you!" 

"Oh, so you knew Severus, did you?"

Karkaroff barked a laugh. "Better than  _you._  Severus and I met during a school exchange program several years ago. His father and mine, they were of the same breed _._ Horrific bastards."  

"As was mine, Karkaroff," Tom lowered his gun ever-so slightly, looking tired. "But that is no excuse. Did you know of Severus' assassination attempt beforehand?"

"No. I knew he worked for Dumbledore and when I saw him creeping about . . . I simply let the events unfold. I was disappointed to see that Severus was unsuccessful, but once that whorish little snitch gave Severus' description, I ran." Harry frowned at the man's comment. From Tom's sudden, warning step forward, the bureaucrat wasn't too fond of it either. "I knew you would not let me go unpunished for my . . . inattention."

"You were right. Are there any other traitors among my inner circle? There is no point in lying. You are already on death's row." 

The Bulgarian grinned darkly. "Yet the satisfaction is still mine." 

Tom shook his head, disgusted. "You betrayed me, Karkaroff. I took you in, I gave you a  _family_ after old 'Officer' Moody killed your half brother." 

"Antonin made his own decisions. And Moody is dead, now, no thanks to you," Igor spat. "Say hello to them for me in hell." The man lunged for his gun.

Moving faster than he ever remembered, Harry shoved open the door and brought the pipe down onto Igor's head. There was a sickening _crack,_ and with a strangled noise, Karkaroff fell forward onto his face. Tom instantly brought his gun to Igor's skull, watching for any signs of awakening.

"I told you to stay outside," the man said, eyes narrowed. 

"No, you told me to stay quiet. Which I was," Harry breathed heavily, a noticeable tremble in his limbs. "And which you should be thankful for." 

"I would have shot him. My reaction time is impeccable, Harry, do not doubt that." 

"I don't doubt your abilities, _'armed and dangerous'._ I'm sure you would've handled yourself fine."Harry tossed aside the pipe and spat at the downed traitor, the glob of mucus glistening on Igor's pale cheek. _"That_ was for me, in retaliation for all the times I've ever been called a whore." 

Tom's eyes sparkled. _"Moya lyubov, kraseev si."_ Green eyes blinked incomprehendingly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side. Now, shall I put Igor out of his misery? You may want to turn around. Unless  . . . ?" 

"Killing is still bad, Tom," Harry reminded, though he turned around all the same.

"It helps to think of it as extermination, ridding the world of vermin," His words were almost idle. This time, when the gunshot sounded and something wet splattered against his ankles, Harry did not flinch. 

* * *

Hermione sneezed as she entered the front hall of the Burrow. Ron had ordered Indian food again, it seemed. Without his mother to cook dinner, the boy was utterly helpless. 

"Hermione? That you?" Came Ron's voice from the living room. "Back already?" 

Removing her denim over-jacket, Hermione absentmindedly hung it across the staircase banister, freeing her hair. "Yes, it's me. How's the curry?" She crossed into the television room, the electronic box lighting up the otherwise dimly lit space. The volume was low, a soft murmur in the background. 

Ron shrugged, smiling as Hermione pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. She tasted a smudge of curry on his cheekbone. "No worse than usual," he said, forking a curry-soaked broccoli. "I saved you some."

"Not much," she pointed out the near-empty food cartons. Toeing off her black heels, Hermione lay down beside her lounging boyfriend and placed her aching feet onto his lap. As if by command, he began kneading the soles, smirking at her grateful moan. 

Hermione Granger was a curvy, bookish woman with curly black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She wore a long black dress and grey stockings, making the dark pigment of skin even richer. 

Ron was lean and pale, with more freckles than he could count. Red hair ran in the family, though his eyes were blue, rather than the warm brown of his six brothers. "Did you take a shower?" Hermione asked, scenting their sandalwood shampoo.

Ron smirked, cheeks filled with food. "Is that really such an oddity?" 

"It is. Give me some of that broccoli." 

Ron speared it reluctantly and slipped it between her lips. "You look sexy in that dress," he whispered, kissing her firmly. As his eyes slipped shut, Hermione snatched his bowl of food and leaned back, grinning cheekily. "Thief." 

"I'm hungry," she defended. "Your brothers ate all the food at Severus' funeral. I really wish you came with." 

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Snape and I never got along." 

"Even the _twins_ went. And Severus hated them." 

Ron humphed. "If I know Snape, he wouldn't have wanted everyone to make a big fuss out of his . . . demise, anyways." He bit his tongue quickly, noticing Hermione's sudden disapproving glare. "Sorry." 

Hermione covered her face, appetite gone. "God, it was just awful." 

"Talk me through it again." 

"It's just, there's nothing else _to_ say. Severus and I, we had it all rehearsed out - it'd be a quick in-and-out, he'd administer the toxin and I'd deliver it to Riddle. Simple." 

"So what happened?" 

"Bloody _Greyback_ happened," it was rare that the stoutly religious girl sweared. "He appeared out of nowhere, I swear."

Ron grimaced. "That monster can't possibly be human."

"He's human, alright, just a sadistic bastard. He smacked Severus around and dragged him off - and then - " she choked off. 

Ron placed a hand on her leg. "At least we found the body." 

"Stuffed into a dumpster, like rubbish! They didn't even bother hiding it. Almost as if they're _proud."_

"Taken out by his own poison," Ron shook his head in disbelief. "Did he suffer?" 

Hermione worried her lip. "H- his poison was supposed to be torturous. That's the one thing I didn't approve of. Still, I simply don't understand, how did Riddle find out? We had everything planned to a 't'." the girl said helplessly. "I can't help thinking about _what went wrong_. Albus said it's survivor's guilt. Unfortunately, that's not an unfamiliar sensation to me." 

She was thinking on when she first met Ron, six years earlier. Young Hermione had come home from school one day to find her house empty; all their pictures had vanished from the walls, papers strewn across the floor, her father's books torn to shreds. Hermione had been horrified. She'd been so little and naive- only eleven - yet smart enough to know they wouldn't have left like _that_ on their own violation. 

Hermione called the police right away, but they said nothing, did nothing. They had no leads, no evidence of foul play, and no choice but to send her away for 'her own safety'.  She'd been placed with the Weasley's, the patriarch of whom had worked at the Ministry for years. The first year was grueling and miserable, but slowly, Hermione came to terms with her parent's mysterious disappearance.

Even so, Albus Dumbledore himself kept her updated on any leads.

So far, the best they could figure was the Southern Hemisphere, based on some odd documents found intermixed among her father's torn papers. Albus suspected Riddle and his league of criminals, but there was little proof. 

Hermione leaned her head back, teeth clenched with frustration. 

Her parents had been good, loving people - she knew they couldn't have done anything to anger Riddle. They  _had_  no connection to Riddle's crime rig. Or did they? Could malpractice have lead to trouble with the law? Her parents were exemplary at their job, but nothing else could explain it.  

"We'll find your parents, 'Mione. We _will_. No news is good news, right?" 

"Unless they're being tortured into insanity by Lestrange this very second. I'd prefer them dead than suffering. At least then . . . I would _know._ I wouldn't be trapped in this endless cycle of _maybes_  and _what ifs_." 

"Hermione, love," Ron grabbed her chin, expression fierce. "There is no use in wondering 'what if'. The best you can do . . . the best _we_ can do is figure out how to stop it from happening again. We can't change the past, but we can alter the future." 

Brown eyes blinked. "When'd you get so smart?" Hermione asked softly, leaning over to press her forehead against his.

"I'm just underappreciated," he smirked. Hermione hummed, pressing closer. "I love you," Ron said breathlessly. "I love you, and there's nothing in this world that could take me away from you." 

Hermione laughed grimly. "Don't make any promises." 

A crash came from the front hall. Ron jerked up, eyebrow arching. "Mum?" 

"God, I hope not!" came a worried cadence. "I'm not _that_ old. It's Dora. Sorry about your umbrella stand." 

The Burrow had been a safe house for longer than Hermione knew. It was a rendezvous point for the Order, a midpoint, a neutral setting - needless to say, it wasn't odd to find the occasional Order member stumble their way through the front door.

Hermione pulled herself off Ron, sitting down primly, her dark skin concealing a blush. "We're in the living room, Dora." 

Tonks shakily made her way into the lounge, her dyed hair sticking up as though she'd been electrocuted. "Jesus, Tonks, it looks as though you've been through the churner." Ron frowned. "Mum isn't here, if that's who you're looking for." 

The young woman raked a hand through her hair, plopping heavily onto an armchair. "Who I really need to speak to is Albus, but I can't find the old bugger anywhere. I've called his office, his house, I've even tried his brother's - " 

"Today was Severus funeral," Hermione interrupted. "He's been there all day." 

Tonks blanched. "I forgot. Damn." 

"Well, it was rather sudden. And you weren't close to Severus, were you?" 

Her only response was a one-armed shrug. "I still would've gone. To pay my respects, and for the free food." Ron smirked in appreciation.

 _"Well,"_ Hermione crossed her arms. "Albus, Molly, Minerva and the others stayed behind after the proceedings. I couldn't stay any longer. I felt . . . like an intruder." Ron clutched her hand.

"I still need to find Dumbledore," Tonks said distractedly. "It's very important." 

"I suppose I could give you the address," Hermione said slowly, reaching towards the coffee table for a paper and pen. She sketched the Cokeworth address quickly. "What's this news?" 

From within her leather jacket, Tonks removed a small note. The small, prim handwriting was nearly illegible. "I got a message from my aunt," she flapped it idly. 

Hermione stiffened. "Not Bellatrix?" 

"God, no!" Tonks started. "My Aunty Cissy. It was very odd. There was a list of instructions in my inbox at work, telling me to go my mother's house. My mum wasn't home, but there was a letter stuffed under her doormat." 

"Why so many channels?" Hermione interrupted. 

Dora scrunched her face. "Something to do with security. The message wasn't even from her, really. Her husband, Lucius, had information on Riddle." 

 _"Malfoy,"_ Ron hissed. He'd been quiet until now, sitting in bewildered silence. "You can't trust anything that slimy git tells you." 

"I would never have trusted it," Tonks admitted. "Except, Aunty Cissy . . . she's always kept contact with us, even after everything that happened to Lucius. I feel obligated to at least give her a chance." 

Hermione frowned. "What's the message?" 

_"Harry Potter has been compromised."_

"That's all?" 

"If you knew who Potter was, you wouldn't be so hasty with your dismissal," Tonks said grimly. 

Ron straightened, curious. "Well, who's this Potter fellow, then?" 

"Sirius Black's godson." 

They exchanged a glance, realization dawning with a horrid sense of dread.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **

**_In_ The Harlot**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phonetic Translations:  
> Ebi se - Fuck you  
> Moya lyubov, kraseev si - My love, you are beautiful/handsome


	2. The Harlot

 

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Harlot**

The scent of smoke and burning flesh tickled Harry's nostrils. He supposed, after everything he'd seen, burning down Karkaroff's home and cremating the body wasn't  _that_ horrific.  Harry was more concerned about the fire spreading to that little village, Crivina. They had made it back to the plane, and the thick smoke was already visible above the treeline. 

"I'm sure an anonymous tip will be made to the local fire brigade," Tom said idly, gesturing for the pilot to bring down the airstair. "As for the _why_ , leaving evidence is the folly of every captured criminal." 

Harry glanced down at the blood staining the hem of his pants.

"We'll get you new clothes," the man amended quickly. 

Entering the small bathroom, Harry slid on a pair of calf-length trousers and the collared shirt. They were several sizes too large, but Harry felt more comfortable in these than the wrinkled and stained Armani suit. Besides, Tom's legs looked fantastic in slacks.  

The plane soon landed on a private air strip, just outside of Sofia. They rented a car from a nearby warehouse and Marcus drove them into the city. Despite his crude disposition, Marcus was an exceptional geographer.

"Where are we going now?" Harry asked curiously, peering out at the city. 

The elder tapped his knee impatiently, eyes fixated on a distant building. "An acquaintance of mine lives in a nearby penthouse. We'll be spending the next couple nights there, if all goes to plan." 

Harry tipped his head in appreciation. "A penthouse? Fancy." 

"Yes. Krum is quite well-to-do. Perhaps it has something to do with his celebrity." 

Suddenly, it clicked. "Krum . . . Viktor Krum? The football player? _That's_ your acquaintance?" 

Tom smirked. "His portrayal on television is quite exaggerated, I assure you." 

Flint dropped them off at a pair of glass doors.

The receptionist was skeptical at first, but Tom was quick to flash her a charming smile. They spoke in soft Bulgarian for a moment while Harry stared around the building. The apartment complex was really quite opulent, with golden fixings and marble floors.

"Mister Krum is on the thirty-seventh floor," she said finally, reaching over to the dial phone. "He is with a guest. I will inform him of your arrival." 

Pink lips quirked. "No need. Viktor loves surprises."   

Grasping Harry's hand, Tom lead Harry to the elevator. The walls were two-way mirrors, giving Harry and Tom a gorgeous bird's-eye view of Sofia.  "I've never been outside of England before," Harry said quietly, pressing his forehead to the glass. "Even with the - uh, you know, revenge plot - this is better than I could have imagined." 

Hot lips brushed against his ear. "I'm glad." Tom's voice seemed to have dropped several decibels. Another shiver went down Harry's spine. 

Just in time, the elevator dinged. Tom have a regretful smile, and stepped into the hall. 

Blue eyes surveyed the doors, hearing muffled murmuring from room  _3700._ With three solid knocks, Tom rapped on the door. The peephole darkened momentarily, a pleasant exclaim sounding through the wood. "Tom! I did not expect you," the door swung open. 

Viktor Krum was perhaps a bit taller than Harry expected, thick-necked and muscular, though he held himself with a surprising grace. He was also naked from the waist down. "Obviously," Tom sneered at Viktor's lack of dress. The athlete grinned roguishly. "But the blame is entirely mine. Our trip was rather sudden."   
  
"Our?"

Tom stepped aside to reveal the brightly flushing Harry. VIktor's dark eyes lit up, taking in the tousled hair and pale skin. "Hello, pretty," the man's voice was deep and sonorous. He stepped forward, the thin fabric of his underpants revealing the muscular definition of his thighs. Viktor captured Harry's hand, bringing it to his lips. His five-o'clock shadow was rough and scratchy. "I am Viktor Krum. And you are?" 

Before Harry could answer, a sibilant voice drifted from the apartment. 

"Viktor _, cher?_ Who is here?"  

Tom pulled Harry into the apartment, away from the flirtatious football player. A slim, blonde woman was sitting on the kitchen counter in nothing but her undergarments. Her eyes were a striking blue, matching her lace panties. She unabashedly slipped to the floor, set down her coffee cup and swayed across the room. "You didn't tell me you were expecting guests," she spoke in a smooth French accent, red lips stretching in a grin. "I believe we've met, Monsieur Riddle, no?"   
  
"Madame Delacour, always a joy," Tom accepted Fleur's  _faire la bise._ "Or is it Weasley, now? I did not expect you in Bulgaria. Isn't your husband . . . ?"   
  
"William is in Romania visiting his brother, the zookeeper," she said dismissively. "I thought I would take a day trip to visit an old friend."   
  
"'Friend', indeed," Tom pursed his lips, peering darkly at Viktor. "Perhaps my companion and I will find other arrangements for tonight, if you two are to be having relations . . ."   
  
Fleur shook her head, blonde hair fluttering. "Do not be so melodramatic, Thomas. William expects me back this afternoon. The guest room is perfectly fine for you two, I did not use it," her smirk was directed toward Viktor. "Who is _your '_ friend'?" The words were mocking, but her curiosity was genuine. 

Harry awkwardly shrunk under the gaze of the three gorgeous human specimen. He was beginning to feel a tad insecure. "Do not be shy," Viktor said in amusement, pressing his hand to Harry's back, a searing hot pressure. 

"H - Harry. Harry Evans."  

"It's a true pleasure," Fleur's smile gained a soft edge. She pulled her gaze away, drawing her hands to her waist. "Viktor, you should get dressed and introduce Tom and Harry to the local landmarks." 

She was quite bossy, but Viktor seemed used to it.  "It's only polite," he agreed. "And you?" Viktor reached toward her. "You will be leaving?"

"I should," Fleur reached up to stroke Viktor's jaw. "I will miss you, _cher_." 

"Even as you bed that - that filthy  _common_ man?" he spat, large hands clenching her sides. 

The blonde closed off, her warm eyes chilling with an alarming speed.Harry was startled at how quickly the tension grew. Fleur and Vikor seemed so . . . charming, before. 

"This is not a topic to engage in among guests, Viktor," she said sharply. "We will speak of it later." 

"You are leaving me! We will speak of it now, or never!" 

Harry turned to Tom, eyes desperate. Tom gently pulled him from the bickering infidels, but their voices were gaining volume. Fleur's sultry voice turned shrill, much like the cry of a banshee. 

"My marriage is not your concern, Viktor. I do not comment when you _fuck_ your admirors, man or woman, often many at once -  "

"In true French fashion, ironically," Tom whispered, rolling his eyes.   

"Those rumors are not true!" Viktor said vehemently, dark eyes glinting. "I have had many chances to be with others, but I have been celibate since your _farce_ of a marriage. And you are one to speak! Does your _husband_ know of your dalliances, or is he too  _dim-witted_ to realize it?"  

Fleur pushed him away. "William is a fine man! But _he_ is not the issue.  _You_ are. My choices are _mine,_ and celibacy was _yours._ I do not dictate your actions, so do not presume to dictate mine!" She stormed off into the bedroom, Viktor following soon after, growling in rapid Bulgarian. 

Tom's face was expressionless, though there was a tick in his jaw. Harry was unsure if the man was amused, frustrated, or disgusted. His words made Harry frown. "Viktor may be attracted to your body," he said vehemently. "But he will always be devoted to Fleur." 

"She's - she's married, isn't she?" 

A tan hand brushed back a stand of hair, the man visibly calming himself. "Unfortunately for Viktor, yes. Fleur is well-known in France for her beauty. She reminds me of my father; marrying below her status and stringing along a number of lovestruck fools for her own amusement. Viktor is not her only lover. Her current husband - not her first, either - is an archeologist that has made many discoveries about ancient Egyptian civilizations. In a strange turn of events, his parents are known members of Dumbledore's secret police. Despite my disgust, this makes Fleur a prime ally."    
  
Harry frowned. "I thought it was Scrimgeour's police?   
  
"Dumbledore may refuse to run for office, but we all know who is really running the show."   
  
Harry was quiet for a moment. Somehow, everything all came back to the Order. He tried to change the subject. "What is your view on Viktor?"   
  
Tom waved a hand. "He is merely another hapless slave to celebrity and repute. A lifetime in the spotlight has gone to his head. Not only is he an athlete, but his father is a high ranking official in the bulgarian Ministry. Disregarding his hedonistic pleasures, Viktor is a loyal man with many connections. He dabbles in policy on occasion, and has sworn to me that the Bulgarian ministry will support whomever I manipulate into office."

An hour later, Harry learned that Viktor Krum was also a tour guide in his spare time.

Viktor was visibly sullen after the confrontation with his lover, but remained stoically polite to Harry and Tom. Harry was glad the man didn't blame them for triggering his and Fleur's altercation. Any sign of flirtation or charm had fled, leaving him brooding and quiet. His hood was up, hiding him from potential paparazzi. 

On the surface, Sofia was just like any other city, with bustling sidewalks and sirens wailing in the distance. They walked past a number of large, architectural buildings, a soft breeze rustling through their hair. With Tom's warmth beside him, it felt a bit like a date. The entire situation was novel to Harry. Murder in the morning and sight-seeing in the eve? It was almost hysterical. 

As for Viktor, his English wasn't perfect, and when he slipped into Bulgarian - often just to swear as he tripped over the curb - Tom was quick to translate. "This is the Russian Church of Saint Nicholas, the Miracle-Maker," he pointed out a green-roofed building surrounded by tulips. "The locals call Nicholas 'the Sandman.'" The sun glinted off it's golden domes.  "His remains are kept inside of a sarcophagus. If you leave a letter to Saint Nicholas, it is said that your wishes may come true." 

They crossed the street, noticing a number of artists and dissenters standing on soap-boxes. "This is the Bar Kristel garden," Viktor said boredly. 

Tom blinked. "Isn't this close to where Stefan Stambolov was - " 

"Attacked by a saber, yes. His statue is nearby." 

"Who is Stefan St - er, I can't pronounce it," Harry admitted. 

Almost absently, Tom reached over to grasp Harry's wrist. They forced their way through Kristel garden, ignoring the crazed protests and lewd glances sent their way. Eventually, the three stared up at the large statue of Stefan's face, a jagged slash marring his stone forehead.

"Stambolov was a politician from the late 1800s, known for his dislike of the Russians," Tom's lips twitched. "He's often compared to Otto Von Bismark in his . . . often authoritative pursual of independence. This lead to his descent into paranoia and madness, and soon after his resignation, he was assassinated. On a carriage ride past this garden, he was viciously attacked by guns and knifes," a cruel smirk crossed his lips. "When he died, Stambolov was quite disfigured." 

Harry tipped his head. "Looks like an unpleasant fellow,"  

"He was," Viktor and Tom said in unison. 

"Despite his disposition, Stambolov did some good, as well," Tom's grip on Harry tightened minutely.

Breaking the silence, Harry's stomach growled. Blue eyes blinked with amusement before turning to Viktor. "Well, Viktor. What do you recommend for elevenses?" 

* * *

While all was well in Bulgaria, a rat in London was suffering.

"Peter, darling?" a light voice called out through the screen door.

There was no response. A clock ticked in the background as Enid Pettigrew declared her intent. "I'm coming in, you'd best be dressed!"

Peter's mother was a short, curvy woman, dressed in a floor-length floral dress. Her hair dark blond, green eyes bright with youth despite her age. 

Enid stepped inside, brow furrowing as she took in the dark ambience. Her son's home was more a hovel than 'home'; the small, two-bedroom townhouse lie in a segregated part of Ilkeston, made of brick and mortar. The elderly woman swept a hand over a dusty bookshelf, tsking idly. The pile of comic books Peter kept on the coffee table was stained with a spilt cup of tea. On the mantel was a picture of Peter and his old friends, cracked down the middle as if it'd been thrown against a wall and hastily replaced. 

"Peter?" she called out, again. It wasn't like her son to leave the house unlocked. Just like his father, Peter was a nervous, paranoid man. And for good reason. 

There was a muffled sound from up the stairs. Enid frowned, fingers clenching around a small statuette of a lion. At the very least, if the house had been broken into, she could clobber the would-be robber upside the head. She crept up the steps, the floorboards creaking. The foreign sounds became louder - Enid soon recognized them as pained whimpers. With a _thump,_ the lion figurine fell to the floor.

"My lord, Peter, what've you done?" 

Her son was atop the bed, blood everywhere, staining the tilled sheets. Peter was sweating profusely, a cloth around his stump of a wrist. Enid rushed to her son's side, pressing a hand to his feverish forehead. "Mum," the man gurgled, his rheumy cheeks flushed. 

"God, it's infected. I'm fetching a doctor," Stomach rolling, Enid went to the old dial-up phone in the corner, wondering why Peter hadn't called the hospital sooner. 

"Don'!" Peter rasped, panic in his eyes. "Don' call no-one." 

Enid stilled, finger poised over the nine. "Why? Who did this to you? Was it Riddle? I told you not to work with that man!"  

" . . . he . . . I stole somethin' from him, ma," Enid gasped at Peter's delirious mumblings. "He sent me to his house to fetch a suit and I snuck into his office. I saw some p - papers, a letter to Thicknesse. Goyle c - caught me and I pretended to have stolen some stupid statue instead . . . Riddle took my hand for it," he waved the stump, a strike of pain going through him. "But . . . it . . . was worth it." 

_"Nothing_ is worth this, son," Enid said sharply. She remembered her husband, Hubert, and his ties to the Scottish drug cartel. Their marriage had been tumultuous, Hubert spending long nights doing who-knows-what, sometimes coming back with bullet wounds or worse. Enid would wait up for him, dreading the day a policeman came knocking at her door. Hubert eventually died from heart complications at the age of seventy, but often, Enid wondered if her life would be easier if Hubert had simply died when Peter was a baby. Peter took after her in many ways, but he took after his father in this.

She busied herself in reapplying the bandage that stemmed the stream of blood. "Who is Thicknesse?" 

"A . . . politician," Peter rasped, wincing. "Riddle wants him to be Minister after . . . after they assassinate Minister Scrimgeour. Riddle wants the Order to be abolished, and for people like Fenrir and Bellatrix and Macnair - sadists, psychopaths, criminals - to reign free." 

Enid was quiet. " . . . People like you, you mean." 

Peter shut his hazel eyes, forcing back tears from years worth of regret. Seventeen years, to be exact, since he sold out Lily and James, put Sirius into jail and pushed away Remus. Since little Harry, who he'd never thought he'd see again, was left orphaned and forgotten. 

"Yeah, mum. People like me." 

* * *

Her hands were cold.

Trying in vain to warm them, Bella clenched them tightly in hers, the small hands tense and frigid. The child's damp face rested in the crook of her neck, a cold, button nose pressing into her jugular. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, kissing the child's bald head. The smell of grass and fresh rainwater lingered, along with the faint scent of formaldehyde. Even after all these years, her daughter's delicate, waxen, perfect features were preserved. The child was dressed in a lace gown, the fabric frayed and dirt-ridden after seventeen years. “You would be such a beautiful woman. Rodolphus and I would have been so proud."  

World-weary, Bella stared up despondently at the stars. “This is a lovely evening," her words slurred slightly. Starlight peeked through mist and shadow. Night birds hooted in the distance and buzzing crickets serenaded them. “Just, there - " she pointed up. "That's Canopus, apart of the Carina constellation. Carina. I always liked that name."  

After a few moments of silence, she looked at the child desperately. “Please,” she rasped, rocking her in her arms. “Please wake up. It's time to come home to mummy and daddy." Carina remained silent. Bella choked out a laugh, in sudden realization. “Mummy . . . mummy. I'd have been a horrid mum, but I - I would have killed anyone who dared upset you." Her expression darkened.  _"Potter,"_ she spat. "Paid for his sins against you. I wish I was there to have seen the light leave his eyes. I wish I had killed his son - make him feel like  _I_ felt.

"It will be an honor to kill Scrimgeour and dismantle that  _pathetic_ order. I will kill Scrimgeour in your name." Tears began pouring down from her cheeks. She pulled herself up, wiping them in embarrassment, dirt smearing.  “Look at me, I’m going soft.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I love you, Carina. I always have and I always will.” The wind began to blow a bit harder. Setting Carina carefully on a pile of mud, Bella went to her knees.

Brushing the dirt from her thighs, she hoisted herself up with the nearby iron shovel shoved vertically into the dirt. The gaping hole beside them seemed endless, though she knew a carefully carved pine casket lay open at the bottom. She refused to look at the gravestone, the words _Baby_ _Lestrange_ carved into the stone. 

It had been nearly seventeen years, and she hadn’t moved on. The abuse from Potter and the Longbottoms during her brief duration under the Order's care assured that Bella's body was in no condition to bear again. Carina had been a six-month-old fetus when she was miscarried, her stillborn body forcing itself out through Bellatrix's wrecked womanhood. 

Wiping her nose, Bellatrix carefully opened Carina's doll-sized casket, the velvet lining cradling Carina's head. She pressed a kiss to Carina's forehead and shut the lid. In short, mechanical movements, she began filling the grave, fingers chilled as the grasped the metallic shovel handle. “There,” she muttered once more, patting the dirt flat. “All tucked in.”

In the distance, police sirens wailed.

She smiled, and pressed her fingers to the cool soil, whispering her last farewells.

“Mummy loves you.”

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._**

**_In_ The Puppetmaster**


	3. The Puppetmaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I'm still unsure about this chapter.

 

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Puppetmaster**

  _ **Sunday**_

The reception room at St. Mungos was bustling with reporters of all types. At the head of the line was Xenophilius Lovegood, who shouted questions retaining to Sirius Black's supposed alter-ego, Stubby Boardman. A thin woman behind a desk labeled Inquiries scribbled on a parchment, trying her best to ignore the bedlam. Closest to Xenophilius, a dark-skinned man cradled his arm and a woman with a young boy on her lap were waiting patiently in heavily stuffed chairs. 

The head of Law Enforcement barely paused as he glided through the hall, patients looking up at him in awe of the impressive bureaucrat. When he reached the fourth floor, Albus Dumbledore peered his head in on room four hundred fifty-seven. "Is he awake?" he asked the nurse, a short man named Michael MacDougall.

The man startled, leveling a dark stare at the officer. "He will be if you continue speaking so loudly," he hissed. "Sir, visiting hours are over - which you'd know if you bothered checking in."

Albus gave a sheepish smile. "I presumed visiting hours could be extended in these special circumstances."

"Respectfully, Officer Dumbledore, just because you've got the minister in your pocket doesn't mean you can intrude on hospital business whenever you so wish." 

A grey brow arched. "Seeing as I'm already here, might I ask how he's recovering?"

The persistent, blue stare broke MacDougal down. "As well as possible," the doctor sighed, adjusting one of the monitors positioned above Sirius Black's ragged head, tracking the man's steady heartbeat. "He is horribly malnourished and weak, but healing. His mental state, however . . . well, that remains to be seen."

"I understand completely," Albus said, moving to stand beside Sirius' bed. 

The doctor looked a bit disturbed. "Is he innocent, Albus? Of course, no matter your response, I will still deliver impartial treatment, but I somehow recall that he was said to be laughing when they took him away. His best friends had just died and his first thought was to attack another? If he's truly innocent, then why -  "

"You'll find, my boy," Albus said softly. "That laughter is sometimes the only way to mask the pain within."

As their soft voices filled Sirius' hearing, he shifted sleepily underneath warm blankets.

"Oh, he's waking. That'll be all, Doctor MacDougal - might you leave the assessment, however? We'll need it for court. I plan on bringing these inhumane treatments to the Minister himself."

"You have ten minutes," the doctor warned, rolling his eyes. Albus waved his hand dismissively, sitting on the mattress beside Sirius.  

Sirius smacked his lips, body weighed down by sleep. The taste and smell of bleach immediately assaulted him, and he peeked open his eyes, recognizing the long white beard and twinkling eyes peering down at him. "Dumbledore?" he croaked out.

Albus, wearing his customarily colorful suit, smiled fondly at his protégé. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Black,"

Sirius murmured a vague response, rubbing at his eyes. The man looked around, his vision uncomfortably overwhelmed by white. The pureness of the room against the officer's bright blue suit burned his eyes. "Where am I?" 

Lips quirking slightly at Sirius' ruffled hair and bewildered eyes, Albus cleared his throat. "We're at St. Mungo's Hospital."

Realization flooded through Sirius eyes. "I'm . . . I'm not in prison? "

Albus tilted his head pityingly. "No, Sirius, you're free from that place. I daresay I've exhausted all the strings I could pull in this miraculous effort."

The man choked, rushing to quickly wipe his tears away. "'M sorry," he muttered, tears streaming down his face. "I never thought I'd hear your voice again." 

"Don't, Sirius," Albus said gently, reaching over to grab his hands. "Don't be sorry. You're not there anymore." His gentle tone was far too much for the man. He broke out in soft cries, his shoulders shaking as he leaned forward desperately into his old boss's warm embrace. After a few long minutes, Sirius pulled away.

Albus cleared his throat. "Now, the Ministry, while allowing your early release on behalf of good behavior, has decided to place you on house arrest until you can prove you are mentally able to reenter society." 

"House arrest?" the man paled. It was then Albus noticed how pallid he truly was. Sirius' cheekbones were sharp and sallow, his hair dry and slightly matted, though he appeared leagues better than when he'd arrived from prison. 

Dumbledore looked sympathetic. "I'm sure Grimmauld Place can be fixed up swiftly, perhaps with the help of your old friend." 

Sirius' expression suddenly lit up. "How is Remus?"

"Excellent, I'm sure. He's highly anticipating your reunion."

"Where'd he end up after . . . everything?"

The man paused, continuing slowly. "After that first year, Remus slowly distanced himself from the Order and his friends - understandable, of course. He relocated to Wales and we didn't hear much from him until a few years back. He met a woman; her name, if memory serves, is Patricia. They worked in a bookshop together and I hear she's several months expecting." Sirius blanched, eyes wide.

"Did they marry?" he asked. "Who . . . who was his best man?"

"They eloped, I believe," Albus said pensively. "You'll have to ask him all about it."

"And . . . Peter? I swear to you, I thought he had a hand in Lily and James' murders. I would never have attacked him without cause."

Albus frowned. "You nearly killed him, Sirius. Regardless, there is no proof of Peter's involvement in their unfortunate demise, and he has since lived a quiet life. As far as we are aware, at least."

Sirius nodded reluctantly and looked down at his hands in his lap. His head jerked up. "Harry," he breathed, eyes wild. "What about Harry?"

"If my math is correct, he's nearly eighteen years old. He likely doesn't even remember - "

"I want to see him," Sirius insisted, sitting up straighter. "He's my godson. I want to see him!" The heart monitor began to beep dangerously, the man's heart rate rising rapidly. Albus backed away as Doctor MacDougal sped into the room. "I want to see Harry!" the Black heir screamed, struggling as MacDougal brought ties around his wrists. 

"He's my godson! I have a right! He's James' son! James. James!"  Sobs tore through him as MacDougal fastened Sirius to the bed.

Scrambling for a syringe, the doctor pierced the needle into Sirius' arm.  "Calm, Mr. Black," MacDougal soothed, removing the needle slowly. "There you are." Sirius slumped into the mattress, his mercurial eyes gleaming with tears. 

The doctor narrowed his eyes at the head of Law Enforcement, who was lingering in the doorway. "Mr. Black has gone through far too much, and I won't have you bothering my patients any further!" he spat. 

Albus' expression hardened.

He turned to Sirius who, while awake, was only barely. "I'll . . . I'll fetch Harry tomorrow. Mind, it'll be difficult to explain to his relatives the circumstances, but - "

"Just get me my godson," Sirius croaked, voice strained. "I don't care what it takes." The old man smiled consolingly, the twinkle in his eyes fading as Sirius fell into unconsciousness. 

MacDougal glared. "He seems certain that he'll be taking custody of James' kid. You ought not make empty promises."

"You're skeptical of my abilities?" Dumbledore said coolly. 

"Not yours. _His_. He is very unstable, as you just witnessed. There is little chance that Black is fit to be a father."

A wrinkled hand stroked frayed white hairs. "Or, perhaps, young Harry can heal him. Give him closure. Give him a  _purpose."_

It was a very big 'what-if'. The doctor didn't seem convinced, though he left it at that. He was a medical doctor, after all, not a psychologist.

Albus had to admit, this was one of his less-thought-out plans. It was probably the quickest Albus had ever moved, filing the papers for Sirius' release after hearing young Miss Tonks' news the day before. Everyone thought him mad, releasing an insane man from jail to convince a mere  _boy_  the difference from right and wrong. It was, indeed, impossible for most, but he was Albus Dumbledore.

And he would do whatever it took to keep Riddle from winning this war.  

* * *

  ** _Monday_**

Waking from a pleasant dream that had already begun to flee from his memory, Harry relaxed into the loose, warm embrace around him.

The morning was a lazy one, and a late one for that matter, to make up for the chaos of yesterday. 

Viktor had brought them to a gorgeous art museum but - in the process of ordering a coffee from the cafe - Viktor's hood fell down. He'd been recognized immediately.

The older man was surly and unhappy due to Fleur's absence and had not taken the sudden bombardment of paparazzi well. Viktor had knocked away the camera of one of his admirers, shattering the lense and spraying glass across the ground. 

The rage in Viktor's dark, once soft eyes, was almost reminiscent of Tom. 

It reminded Harry that everyone had the potential to be dangerous. 

Tom didn't seem so menacing now, his hair delightfully messy and his long eyelashes dusting over pale cheeks.

Viktor only had one spare room, so - while Tom insisted Harry take the bed, and Harry insisted  _Tom_ take it - they compromised. Despite his original protests, Harry didn't mind  _too_ much. 

Though, Harry flushed, it was a bit difficult angling his morning erection away from the other man. As he shifted awkwardly in Tom's grasp, the bureaucrat's arms tightened minutely. In sleep, he was horribly possessive.

Harry decided to let the man sleep; it had probably been a long while since Riddle last had a morning to himself. Just as Harry was about to slip back into unconsciousness, Tom's phone went off. The electronic vibrated, making the bedside table rattle. Tom tensed, waking suddenly, pulling away from Harry. Bringing a hand to his drowsy, darkened eyes, Tom rolled over and pressed the  _answer_ button. 

"Lucius? It's bound to be - god, seven in the morning in London. What do you want?" His voice was sharp and irritant - giving no clear indication that he'd just been fast asleep. 

Harry, sitting so close to Tom, could easily hear Lucius' smooth voice on the other end. "There has been an . . . incident with my sister-in-law," the man said sneeringly.   
"There's a warrant out for her arrest." 

"Bellatrix? Again?" Tom didn't sound horribly surprised. "What for?"

"Trespassing, evasion of law enforcement and . . . grave desecration. Assumed grave robbery." 

_"Again?"_

Harry felt ill. Did Bellatrix make a habit of digging up graves? 

"Yes, well. She got away, but since the last time, the funeral director placed a security camera at the front gate. She was caught on camera with a shovel in hand. "

Tom ran an exhausted, exasperated hand down his face. "Bellatrix is usually far more discrete with her . . . visits."

"I believe she was inebriated at the time. Her husband noted a number of missing bottles from their wine cellar. It has been a very trying month for Bellatrix, what with the upcoming election," the man was pensive. "It is obvious that she desperately wishes for justice. It has been many, many years coming." 

The crime lord was quiet for a moment. Harry was intrigued with the array of emotions flashing behind his blue eyes. There was concern, fondness, frustration - it seemed to Harry that Tom truly cared for his inner circle of criminals. They were his family. Harry was hit with the all too-familiar feeling of envy.

Tom and Lucius spoke in soft tones for a bit longer, ending with Tom slapping the phone shut. He rolled back over, eyes hooded and contrite. "We must leave soon," he said, lips barely moving. His heavy hand hovered over Harry's side, afraid to move any closer. In wakefulness, he wore a cool, expressionless mask and carried himself with impeccable self-control. "It is time for you to return to your uncle." 

The boy was hit with a strike of - not quite betrayal, but something just as bitter. "Of course," he forced out, voice raw. "And for you to return to your . . . friends." Harry pondered for a second. "You've never actually told me what you do. Are you a politician, a hitman, a gang leader, a crime lord or an old-money aristocrat?" 

Tom's lips quirked slightly. "Why can't I be all?" 

"Well," Harry pulled himself up on one elbow. "You sweet-talk and manipulate businessmen like Mister Mason, only to kill and cut off the hands of your own followers."

"Is that all?" 

"Not even the tip of the iceberg. Worse than murder and torture, you roofie poor, innocent underage boys and whisk them away on a fabulous 'vacation', introducing him to celebrities and culture and . . . and  _happiness_ like a hero in some twisted romance novel." Eyes blazing, Harry prodded Tom's chest. "And now, you're dropping everything to help a woman who _dug up a bloody grave?_ Tell me,  _Mister Riddle,_ who are you?" 

The man was utterly silent after Harry's outburst, his face and even his eyes veiled with some unknown emotion. "I am a man," Tom started lowly. "With both a dark and a light side. Everyone has the potential for darkness. However, I am  _not_ like everyone else. I have many talents and many obligations. The choices I make are not always good ones, but they are  _mine._ I am both a killer - ruthless and merciless - and a lover. I am capable of fondness and familial love, which allows me to be fiercely loyal to - as you said - my 'followers'. Bellatrix has been a dear friend of mine for many years and, just as she would for me, I would put my life, my reputation, and my honor on the line for her." Harry's heart sunk slightly, wondering if - maybe - despite their interactions and the possessive attitude, Tom was straight after all. They hadn't known each other for more than a few days, while this 'Bellatrix' woman, married or not - 

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Tom pressed closer, breaking every comfort zone either of them held. "But, I think, in answer to your question, I'm also a man who may consider opening his heart once more." 

Harry decided to play this game. "T - to whom, I have to wonder, deserves that honor?" 

His lips turned up at the corners. "Perhaps a poor, defenseless, underage boy with skinny limbs, dastardly messy hair, too-bright eyes and a horrid fashion sense. That is,  _if_ the boy is willing to place aside all his morals and all his inhibitions to accept me for who I am. Darkness and all." 

Harry's breath caught. "I - " 

Tom's phone buzzed once more, shattering the moment. 

Peeling his eyes away, slowly, painfully, Tom released a long breath, snatching the phone up. "It's Lucius, again," he murmured, eyeing the phone screen. "He forgot to mention that the ministry has announced a ball to be held in one month's time. All potential candidates for minister are to present themselves. Scrimgeour is to announce his fourth five-year term, while Thicknesse - " 

The boy swallowed roughly, bringing his eyes to the ceiling. He did not want to listen to this. "I suppose, with Scrimgeour presenting himself in such a public setting, you'll be enacting on your . . .  _plan_."he said darkly. The reality of Tom's occupation was a bitter pill to swallow. 

Tom blinked, his previous soft expression hardening. "Yes. I will send Bellatrix to kill him," Harry grimaced. "I see that you are unhappy with me." 

Harry shut his eyes. "Not with you, really. I'm just . . . reminded of my so-called 'innocence' and naivety. It's like you said - " Valentina's restaurant and spiked drinks seemed so long ago. "if I stayed with you, I'd only get underfoot. Listen. I turn eighteen in a month, and by then, I'll be of age. I'll be able to leave my uncle's, and Scrimgeour will - erm, be taken care of, and - " his words trailed off, filled with unanswered questions and hopeful potential.  

"You're correct, of course. It would be best to wait." Tom said softly. "But not because you aren't wanted; to keep you safe." 

"Quiet and out of the way," Harry parroted, trying to be soothed by Tom's assurance. "Despite my disobedience with Karkaroff, I've had seventeen years to practice it. Can't be too difficult," he tried to joke. It was weak, and only made Tom's frown deepen. As Harry tried to pull himself out of bed, Tom caught his wrist in a vice-like grip. 

"I enjoyed spending these last few nights with you," his voice was breathy, his eyelids lowered in a seductive, darkly promising way. "But when you are eighteen, I would like to bed you properly," he brought his lips to Harry's pulse. Harry's vision went blurry, his breath speeding up at the slightly dry but strangely erotic pressure. The skin tingled, the nerves flaring like electricity, and Harry let out a strangled noise. 

This . . . this was going to be a long month. 

* * *

The nasty, guttural sensation of hungover-ness was unpleasantly familiar to Vernon Dursley. 

The sound of a bird cawing just outside his bedroom window woke him quite abruptly from his unconsciousness. Startled, Vernon lifted his head and instantly regretted it. His eyes burned from the sunlight streaming into the bedroom. "Ugn," the man moaned. Even his  _teeth_ hurt. He hadn't undressed before climbing into bed, and even  _that_  simple task,he hadn't done correctly. Vernon was lying horizontally across the vertical bed, his cheek pressed into the edge of the mattress. Sweat and drool stuck to his face.

The man very nearly shouted for his nephew to help him into the bathroom, until he realized, the boy was still absent. With  _Thomas Riddle,_ no less, the wealthy billionaire with - apparently - an unhealthy taste for young boys. Vernon, personally, couldn't understand it. He supposed Harry was pretty, in an effeminate way, but that was mostly due to his small stature and forcibly imposed starvation. Mister Mason was fond of Harry, however, and so . . . Vernon had no complaints.

Hazel eyes peeling open, Vernon expelled a long, irritated breath and forced himself out of bed. He staggered and nearly gagged on the rank smell. Alcohol was smeared across his front, an empty beer bottle left on the bedside table. Vernon quite deserved a long, hot shower, he thought. 

Retrieving his brown bathrobe that hung behind the door, Vernon waddled into the hall.  A quarter hour or so later, the air was filled with warm steam, the washroom tiles glinting with condensation. His reddened hand twisted the hot water faucet, a stream of clear liquid halting. Vernon stepped out of the shower, large rolls of fat wobbling and glistening like the blubber of a whale. Water droplets slipped from his mottled, trunk-like legs and onto the floor, echoing in the otherwise noiseless washroom. Running thick fingers through lank grey hair, Vernon shuffled to the sink.

The rollers and vials of makeup that had been so prominent in the years of his marriage were gone. A soft pang went through him as he recognized hints of Dudley in his reflection. Mouth tasting of mint, Vernon downed a headache pill and dressed herself in lightweight day clothes. He padded into the hallway, the soft carpet tickling against bare feet. Eventually, he came to a stop at a door, six colored letters proudly declaring it to be  _DUDLEY's_ bedroom.

Even after everything with Petunia, he kept the room maintained like a morbid museum. 

When his son died, the blow had been violent, and sudden. Vernon hadn't wanted to believe that his son could be so careless, but then he remembered himself at Dudder's age. Reckless, foolish, angry at the world, wanting to prove himself to the other boys. Dudley was a victim of youth, and his youth was stolen from him. Watching Petunia sink into a depression had been just as horrid. Vernon had never been good at communicating or counseling - instead of  _talking_ with his wife, he buried himself into his work and spent most nights drinking.

At some point, he no longer noticed when Petunia slipped out of bed to hide in Dudley's room, her sobs resonating through the house. His nephew began cooking every meal and Vernon ate it all, stuffing his mouth so he wouldn't have to speak to his dead-eyed wife. And when his razors suddenly went missing . . .  _Vernon did nothing._

Thankfully, Harry was the one to find the body. 

Vernon did not cry at her funeral. Mister Mason had attended, suitably solemn and dressed in all black; in consolation for Vernon's loss, Mason ever-so kindly donated several thousand to Grunnings, and Vernon rediscovered his passion for society and business. While he still nursed the bottle most nights, he was in better condition than ever. 

Descending the stairs, Vernon tersely wandered into the kitchen, once more wishing his nephew was there to make a hot, hearty breakfast. However, with the hangover, he probably wouldn't have been able to keep it down. Setting the stove and filling a saucepan with water, he boiled his coffee until the heady scent reached his nostrils. Finally ladling it into a cup, he silently sat at the a small wooden table sitting against the wall. The varnish was faded and scratched, desperately needing a good polish.

As he readied his cup to take a sip, Vernon startled as as a sharp rap came at the door.  

Due to his stout and short figure, Vernon couldn't see much through the peephole except for the glint of a silver badge. The muscles of his back suddenly tensed with panic. He debated ignoring the constable’s arrival but, as the officer’s hand raised to rap at the door again, Vernon decided he had done nothing wrong - not  _recently,_ anyway. In one swift movement, Vernon unlocked the door and held it open only a crack, the chain catching. He could see, now, the fluff of a white beard and two bright blue eyes, blinking at him in surprise. 

"Officer," he murmured, voice rasping. “Is there something I can do for you?”

There was a long pause, before the old man smiled benignly. "Mister Vernon Dursley? My name is Albus Dumbledore. I worked with your wife's late brother-in-law,"

"Late wife, too," Vernon muttered darkly, not liking the sound of this. "What do you want?" 

"I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to come in," Vernon particularly _did_ mind. As he was about to voice this, Albus leaned forward against his cane. "The neighbors are muttering quiet fiercely, you know, it would be best if we took this inside." This got Vernon moving, grumbling beneath his breath and ushering Dumbledore in with a surreptitious look around the street. 

The constable entered with a single large step, his boots thumping against the floor. A thin grey eyebrow arched as he inspected the household. He was dressed fastidiously in a dark blue uniform, his hair wild and white, beard braided with beads. Dumbledore was intimidatingly tall, though he seemed to be lacking when it came to bulk. His nose was crooked and his hand was hideously deformed - as though both been broken and never properly reset. Though he held himself with a whimsical sort of confidence, his shoulders were stooped with age and stress. "Lovely home," the man said with a false smile.

"Just get on with it," Vernon tugged his collar anxiously, feeling an onslaught of nausea. 

"Ah, I see small talk will not be effective with you," Albus shook his head in bemusement. "I shall get to the point. Tell me, Vernon - may I call you Vernon? - what do you know of Sirius Black?"

* * *

**_To be continued_ **

**_In the next installment,_ The Phoenix or the Flame**

**Author's Note:**

> Any glaring plot holes are likely to be filled in the next installment. If you have any comments or critques, I'd love to hear them. On the topic of Bulgaria, I'm not fluent in the language what-so-ever and I've never visited either Crivina or Sofia. If I get any of the information wrong, I'd really appreciate assistance. Thank you!


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